


From Blood We Came

by DayStar



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayStar/pseuds/DayStar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the discovery of the Alpha pack and Derek's near death, Stiles needs to find a way to cope with his 'weak' human nature, all the while keeping those he loves safe. But in the fierce fighting that is to follow, will he learn to embrace his feelings, or will the coming of the moon take everything away?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> This story begins after the third episode of season 3, Fireflies. I may alter the characters/plot from this point on, but the original is not mine. All rights go to Teen Wolf producers. Comments and critiques welcome!

His hand caught on the desk and then pushed away as he tuned out the voices, distinctly aware of just how helpful he could be in this conversation. There was just… almost no point in listening, so why bother? Colours, objects and faces flashed past him, blurred together as he sent the chair spinning faster and faster. Eventually even those distinctions were gone, bled together by the speed of his whirling, distorted beyond all recognition by the rapid rotation. _Kind of like my life,_ was Stiles' pensive thought, and still he spun, and spun, and -

"Will you knock it off?"

The hard voice, coupled with an unyielding hand on his chair's arm, sent Stiles tumbling out of his seat to the floor. He hit the ground with an exaggerated yelp and quickly scrambled into a seated position, casting an indignant look at the impatient individual leaning against Scott's desk. With arms crossed across his black T-shirt, Derek raised his eyebrows, clearly a "what are you gonna do about it?" expression, and Stiles flung his hands out, palms up in return.

"What was that for?"

In his most condescending, frigid tone - which Stiles knew was reserved for him - Derek replied, " _Some_ of us are trying to discuss what we should do about the Alpha pack. If you're too immature to sit still and actually contribute something, leave."

A flush of colour briefly painted Stiles' cheeks before he could control it. Other people might mock him, but hearing it coming from Derek - an egotistical jerk - was infinitely worse. _Would it really kill him to be, I dunno, nice for once? Is that a werewolf's secret weakness or something? Niceness? It's probably because he thinks no could actually make him be friendly,_ he speculated. _Whatever Derek likes to think, there are people who could kick his ass. Not me, obviously. But someone._

That caustic feeling powered his response, giving it an extra bit of snark. "Hey sourwolf, if you can't focus through a little bit of distraction, you should leave." _Don't stick your tongue out, don't stick your tongue -_ He stuck his tongue out.

Derek's thick eyebrows jumped higher and his bleached grey eyes widened, mouth thinning to a hard line. That was his, "I'm going to murder you in your sleep," look. It was also generally reserved for Stiles. Stiles wasn't certain why he found that so thrilling. _Not everybody has a murder look that's meant especially for them,_ he told himself.    

Scott jumped in. "Hey guys, come on. We're figuring out the problem of the Alpha pack, remember?" There was a wide, almost healed gash across his forehead, a remnant of the incident two nights ago. Apparently when werewolves were locked away for months without the moon and then reintroduced, their claws and fangs were almost as potent as an Alpha's. And they had tried to face that kind of power without him. The sight of the wound stirred his memory and made Stiles angry and - just a bit - more acerbic than he might have been otherwise.

"Hey," the slender teen protested, "all I'm saying is that if Mr. Big Bad Wolf over here is too puppy-ish to have focus, then I-"

Abruptly Stiles found himself lifted from the floor and flung - pressed - against the wall. When his eyes managed to refocus, Derek's haggard face was a foot from his own. His stubble was clear against his pale skin, making him look even more unkempt and drained. The Alpha's teeth were clenched so tightly his jaw became almost painfully prominent. It was an automatic response, almost an urgent need, to turn his hazel eyes from Derek's furious ones, but not before noting the livid rents that crisscrossed his face like some kind of map to Hell. It made him sick, just thinking of what kind of blows would have made that. He dropped his eyes lower, staring at the floor. "I-"

"Shut. Up," the Alpha growled, his voice distorted. Stiles shut up.

Slowly Derek loosened his fist from around Stiles' collar and stepped back, his gaze not flicking away for a single moment. It was a challenge, but Stiles did not rise to meet it. He was still too shaken by the stark look at Derek's wounds to think up a clever reply.

Once again, Scott broke them up, rising from his sprawl next to Isaac to stand in the middle of the two. "Guys, come on," he repeated. "Planning, remember?"

Isaac took part in the peace party, as if he also felt the need to separate Derek and Stiles before violence broke out. The tow headed teen had collapsed on Scott's bed when he'd first arrived, but now he leaned forward, clasping his slender hands on his knees. "We really do need a plan. The Alpha pack wasn't just one step ahead of us last time; they had already run a football field. They _knew_ what we were going to do."

"Which is what I've been saying," Scott broke in, his earnestness showing in his hurried hand movements. "We need to think more, to actually plan before they push us into acting. It's the only way we'll ever be able to match them." _Easier said than done,_ was Stiles observation as he leaned back against the wall. Derek unknowingly repeated him.

"Easier said than done. How do you plan on doing that?" He finally moved away, and Stiles allowed himself to start breathing deeply again before slumping back to the floor. For the sake of not getting beaten up by Derek, he tried to pay attention to the conversation they'd already had before.

Derek continued. "There's so much that we don't know. These murders - all of the victims virgins - what is that about? I know-" He paused, then pushed roughly forward. "I know a lot about werewolves from my family, ok?"

Stiles couldn't help but mutter, "None of which you tell us, unless it suits you."

The Alpha was partially turned away, but it was easy enough to see the way his broad shoulders tensed under the coarse fabric of his tight shirt. Clearly using his last reserves of patience, he ignored the comment. "I know a lot about werewolves and despite what your-" a pointed, nasty glance at Stiles - "legends say about us, we've never had any reason to sacrifice virgins to the moon, full or otherwise. The only person I can think about asking is Peter, and he…"

"Is the last person I want to ask about anything," Scott finished, and everyone nodded in agreement. Running his hands distractedly through his dark hair, Scott eventually burst out, "If you don't know anything, then where does that leave us?"

"Safe." Isaac greeted the other three's incredulous stares with an impish smile. "None of us are virgins, right? So at least that's one less thing to worry about!"

 _If you look at me, Scott,_ Stiles swore to himself while hastily plastering on a mechanical grin, _I swear to God and sunny Jesus that I will stab you with a silver stake and then roast you with garlic._ Scott looked his way. Derek was the first to notice, his blanched eyes catching Scott's less than subtle movement. _Of course_ he noticed first. And he laughed, a jagged sound bereft of mirth and brimming with disbelief. "You?" he asked in complete skepticism. And again, without even his previous empty amusement. _"You?"_       

Isaac was a different story. His snigger started out as a quiet affair, but was no less delighted for all that. And it shortly grew into a full blown laugh that had him clutching at his sides and almost falling off the bed, reserve forgotten. Scott at least looked uncomfortable and ashamed, and said something in his defense, but Stiles couldn't hear it clearly over the burning flush that was searing his ears and cheeks. Isaac's reaction he expected, but Derek? _What the hell was with that? Did he think I'm… what? With girls all the time? And why that look?_ He had seemed almost disgusted.

It was too much. Stiles rocketed to his feet, fists trembling at his sides, and there was an immediate and palpable shift in the air, the sudden entrance of tension. Scott, Isaac and Derek all stilled, shock and amusement and embarrassment flattened and dulled in the face of a possible confrontation. And - for one of the first times, and most strongly - Stiles became distinctly, horribly aware of what they were. Not wolves. But not humans either. Wolves in human skin, maybe. Regardless, they were different. Other. And Stiles had never been so alone.

It was that realization, not shame or embarrassment, that made his voice shake. "I may be a…" He stopped, unable to say the word, and had to start again. "I'm inexperienced, ok, ya. But at least I'm not _stupid._ " Their confusion at his statement almost enraged him. Of course they hadn't thought of him. Of course not. Why would they have? _All werewolves leave their pet humans at home._ "Two nights ago," he said loudly, "you idiots let _him_ go in against two… I don't know. Two tank werewolves." His finger rose of its own accord, to point accusingly at Derek. The Alpha looked nonplused. "Where the hell was Isaac while all of this was happening, huh? Why couldn't one of you have gone in with him while the other waited by the door?"

His pitch rose and then wavered, his finger dropping back to his side. "He could have _died._ Do you guys actually get that? I know, I know, you're practically immortal, but here's the thing. You aren't _actually_ immortal." Stiles was aware in a distant way that he was totally getting off point, but all the tension that had been building up had just broken the dam he'd built and was flooding out. "You're the werewolves, and I know more about being in a 'pack' than you do. We're like this big, dysfunctional -" Not family. Because family was easily torn apart and hurt too much. Like with his mom.

The thought drenched his anger, and he swallowed hard. All three of them were frozen in stunned silence, and Stiles couldn't look at them anymore. He turned and walked to the door to Scott's room, pausing with one hand on the doorframe for support. "We're a group," the slender teen got out through the lump in his throat. "And if even one of us leaves, it isn't going to work anymore." He knew that, knew it with a sick certainty in the pit of his stomach. "Even _him._ " And he could almost feel Derek's eyes burning a hole through the back of his shirt.

"But you guys don't need me right now." Stiles fought to keep his voice even, failed, and left without another word.   

 


	2. Paying the Bills

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm definitely going to be splitting off from the plot of the show, just for fun. I'll take some of the plots/ideas from the show as I go on, but I gotta say, be prepared for a bumpy ride.

He pushed past Scott's mom on the way out, and couldn't help but hear the concern in Melissa's voice as she called, "Stiles? Is something…?" The door swung shut behind him, and he was walking so fast it was almost a run. Stumbling to his jeep, Stiles fumbled with his keys, dropped them, and finally managed to get them into the lock. He opened the door, jumped inside and slammed it behind him, feeling almost as if a monster - a _werewolf_ \- was hot on his heels. When the door was locked and the windows firmly rolled up, he paused, panting over the steering wheel.

He'd never overreacted like that before. He was always the one to make jokes, to brush things off. It was disturbing to think that he might be changing in that sense. But with everything - Heather dying and Derek in trouble and the Alphas and _everything_ \- it was just hard to remain cool. It occurred to him as he slumped on the steering wheel that they could probably hear that he hadn't left yet, what with the engine not starting or anything. Especially Derek. It would be just like that man to notice exactly what he shouldn't. _Stupid werewolves._

Stiles got the engine running, but he knew that he couldn't go home yet. His dad had refused to work extra shifts over the weekend, and though he said he just wanted a break, Stiles knew he was worried. He probably thought that the shadows under his son's eyes, the extra dose of paleness, was due to Heather's death, and while he was partly right, well, he didn't know the half of it. _No, I can't see him right now._ His dad didn't deserve to worry about his son more than he already did, and seeing Stiles in his current state would definitely up the stress factor. _Guess that leaves the park, or Lydia's house._ Definitely the park.

When he got there, Stiles just parked the car in the modest lot and sat there, numbly staring at the dashboard. He didn't really feel like strolling around, but his emotions sure as hell weren't prepared to interact with anyone at the moment. The teen did his best to distract himself. _I wonder if the library is open. I wouldn't mind looking up some stuff about virgin sac -_

A crisp tap on his window. It was Derek. Of course it was. His dark hair was unruly, obviously from running fast enough to keep up with the jeep, but otherwise he looked his usual stoic self. Stiles groaned and buried his face in the crook of his elbow, so far from ready to talk to the werewolf that he was willing to risk ignoring him.

"Roll down your window." The muffled order reached Stiles perfectly well but he disregarded it. _Go away._

"Stiles, if you don't roll down your window, I'm going to break it." Derek's voice was flat, but Stiles could still hear the sincere threat behind it. _That jerk really would do it, too._ Lifting his face from his arm, he scowled and wrenched the lever for the window, turning and looking out the front in an obstinate gesture when he was done. _Stupid werewolves._

"You ran away fast. Are you feeling better now? Have you sulked for long enough?"   

 **"** Sulked -!?" In his outrage, Stiles twisted to face Derek, holding the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip. "I'm not sulking!"

"Really?" Derek's eyebrows shot up, yelling their skepticism. "Because from where I was sitting, it sure looked like you threw a temper tantrum and stormed out."

"Well, you would know all about that." Tired of the argument already, he slumped in the seat and forced his fingers to relax their death grip. Flexing and then drumming them against the wheel, he looked anywhere but Derek.

The Alpha sighed, and his voice was slightly more civil when he replied. "Look, I know that we've all been dealing with stuff, but right now you just need to get a hold of-"

"As much as I'm sure that advice from an emotionally stunted, twenty something year old werewolf is extremely sought after by many," Stiles interrupted harshly, "if I wanted help dealing with my emotions, I'd call a shrink. Or a clown. Anyone, really, before you." The moment the words tumbled from his mouth he regretted them, but they couldn't be taken back. Neither could the hurt they caused. Derek's face didn't change, but he turned away, one arm resting on the sill of the window. They sat in silence for awhile.  

Before Stiles could find a way to make, "I'm sorry, but you kinda deserved it," sound anywhere near sincerely apologetic, the werewolf had recovered. "Fine," he stated distantly. "You don't need my help. But you booked it out of Scott's so quickly that I couldn't tell you that _I_ needed _your_ help."

It was his turn to make an incredulous sound. Derek growled, deep in his throat. "Stop being a smartass. I need you to talk to Cora." At Stiles' extremely blank look, the werewolf growled again, his jaw working in an effort to hold back insults. "You know, Cora. My I-Didn't-Know-She-Was-Alive sister? The girl who seemed to upset you so much by trying to rip me apart? Cora?"

The sarcasm quickly put words back in his mouth. Stiles snapped, "Yeah, I know who Cora is. What I'm confused about is why the hell you want me to talk to her."

Derek didn't respond to the irritability in his voice, not at all, and that was when Stiles got his first inkling that the Alpha was seriously worried. Normally, nothing would stop him from participating in an argument; whatever was troubling him, it was grave. And, of course, that made Stiles worry too. He searched Derek's shuttered face for a clue, found absolutely nothing. The brown haired werewolf was hesitating, seeming to be searching for the right words to say.

It was awhile before he found them. "Cora is... not doing well," Derek began reluctantly. "Just like Boyd, she remembers almost nothing about being held captive. Worse than that, though... she remembers almost nothing _at all_. Apparently, since the-" He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing in his smooth throat. "Since the fire. Nothing. And this whole werewolf thing. It's almost like she's just recently turned, not someone who has been living with it all her life. She's living with me right now - and will as long as she wants to - but I think she needs someone who isn't... well, me. I guess you're not the only one."

The thin, weak smile that crossed Derek's face right then made Stiles want to take back what he had said even more vehemently than before. But it was too late, and he could only make up for it later. Starting now.

"I can't talk to her right now." The perfectly honest-to-God truth. "But what about tonight? I can swing by your loft after dinner. Although..." Now it was Stiles' turn to hesitate. "I don't know how much help I'll be," he cautioned. "I will try, but it's not like I'm really great at the comfort sort of thing."

Derek's eyes narrowed, and then he laughed, a sound of amusement balanced on a tight-rope of disbelief. "You really need to install a mirror, Stiles. I don't think you know yourself at all." His face softened a bit, and he put his arm through the window to lightly touch Stiles' shoulder. "Believe me, you're good at the whole comfort thing."

For his part, Stiles had frozen when Derek had reached out, and he exhaled at the soft contact. But when the mild hand became harder, an actual grasp on his arm, he couldn't help but stiffen, confusion and defensiveness warring. He only became tauter when Derek began, low and cautious, "About what you said back at Scott's. You said that you aren't - that you haven't done anything yet." He was clearly just as embarrassed to be saying this as Stiles was to hear it, but that didn't stop the mortification from heating up his ears and making his cheeks go splotchy red.

Sinking down in his seat, Stiles protested, "Really, you don't need to -"

"Just stay safe, okay? You're literally the most annoying person I've ever met, but you're right; if even one of us leaves, this isn't going to work anymore. So don't do anything stupid."

And before Stiles could so much as sputter, he let go and walked away. The teen sat in his jeep for awhile longer, biting his lip and trying to think of a reason why he suddenly felt so much better. It was annoying - really annoying - that Derek thought he'd do something stupid, but at the same time... that annoyance was welcome. It was a familiar feeling, something he and Derek had always passed back and forth between each other, and it was something that had been missing recently. It was... - good - to have it back.

Tapping his fingers against his forehead, eventually Stiles shrugged and started his jeep. He'd definitely calmed down, anyways, and his dad wouldn't need to worry more than usual. The drive home was boringly uneventful, and when he got there, Stiles was actually looking forward to talking to the sheriff; they didn't spend time together as much as they used to. That was his fault - he wasn't the best son - but at least today would be a bit different. His dad's car was in the driveway, and as he pulled up, he noticed a grocery bag next to it. _Dad must be cooking tonight._ Which was an alarming thought, but hey, he'd risked food poisoning for less.

Grabbing the bag of groceries, Stiles wandered into the house, chucking his keys on the floor next to his shoes before heading for the kitchen. His father wasn't there, but another bag sat on the counter, unpacked, and the TV was on. Brow furrowing, Stiles muttered, "Great time to take a sport break." Weird time, really.

"Hey dad, I'm home!" he called before beginning to put the food away. No response. _Maybe he fell asleep on the couch?_ But Stiles found his movements slowing, and eventually he paused, a block of cheese in his hand. _Maybe I should check._ The old man could have had a heart attack or something.

 _Not very funny,_ was his conclusion at the weak joke, and the teen moved cautiously into the living room. The couch was empty, a small, full glass of Bourbon sitting untouched on the cedar table. Stiles' frown grew. "Dad?" he yelled, trailing up the staircase. "You're too young to be taking afternoon naps!" But the sheriff's room was empty as well, the bed crisply made. Stiles searched the whole house; no one was there, besides him.

Back in the kitchen, Stiles fumbled with his phone, heart hammering. His dad was probably just out - and had left all the groceries sitting there? - or something, but ever since the werewolf thing had started, and especially after the kanima, he couldn't stand not knowing if the sheriff was okay. Just as he'd found the right number, held his shaking finger over the dial button, the kitchen phone started to ring. The massive wave of relief was almost paralytic. _He probably had to run out on a call,_ he reasoned to himself even as he answered it, feeling foolish for getting so worried.

"Yo, what's-"

"Hello Stiles." The smooth greeting was nothing like his father's rough voice. It sent an immediate cascade of goose bumps down his neck, and he struggled to answer for a moment.

"I - who is this?"

"We haven't met, but I'm sure you've heard of me. My name is Deucalion." The voice paused, as if expecting a reply, but a hard object had lodged itself in Stiles' throat, and he was struggling to breath. His mind, racing before, went into overdrive, but still the teen remained quiet.

"Star struck into speechlessness?" Deucalion asked, and then laughed, the sound all the more sinister for the mild amusement it contained. "Well, no matter. I only need to pass on some information. I found something, and I think it might belong to you. I have a feeling you value it highly. I'm willing to give it back - no reward necessary - if you come and pick it up."

The plastic phone creaked as his hand clenched around it, and the inability to speak was gone. "Where? Where is he, you sonofa-"

Another light laugh cut him off. "Manners, Stiles. I'm sure the Sheriff taught you better than that. After all, I'm being quite generous here. I've even arranged to have someone pick you up and take you to our little Lost and Found. They'll be at your house in - oh, three minutes. I suggest you pack some clothes. Who knows how long this might take? And leave your phone. If you don't, well, who knows what kind of condition your item will be returned in?"

Stiles forced his rage down, pushed away the fear crowding his chest. "Okay," he breathed, hands shaking. "Okay. Please, just don't - don't hurt him. I'll come."

"Excellent. I'll be seeing you very shortly. Don't make me wait." There was a click, and static filled his ear. He stood frozen, blood draining from his face, for maybe fifteen seconds. _Three minutes._ The reminder was an electric prod, jolting him into motion. Stiles was running for the stairs before he'd entirely realized that his legs were moving. He stumbled up them, panting, and bolted into his room. A duffel bag was quickly found, and he threw in the first few shirts and pants to come to hand. Seconds later he was packed, and paused, one sweaty hand on the knob of the door.             

His breath was coming in hoarse gasps, but an icy resolve was slowing his heart down, forcing his frantic thoughts into order. "He wants this," Stiles realized out loud. "He doesn't want to give me time." Which meant that Stiles needed to use the most out of the time he had.

Pulling in a hard gulp of air, he called Scott. No answer, but the answering machine came on. "Scott, it's me." _Stupid, stupid, I need to be quick!_ "Deucalion has my dad. I don't know where but -" _I'll be seeing you very shortly_ \- "but I think it's fairly near my house. He's - he told me I need to come, he's sent someone to pick me up. I'm going to go, I have to. Scott, just... just find us, okay? Make sure my dad is fine, I can't -. I need to know he'll be fine. I'll try to leave a - a trail or something, so look for it. Just - if anything happens, I -"

The doorbell rang. Stiles dropped the phone, and closed his eyes. Taking in another deep breath, he forced them open, picked up his bag, and reluctantly went downstairs. The doorbell rang again. He had managed to drive the trembling from his limbs, and Stiles felt his jaw tightening as he opened the door. Two familiar, unwelcome faces greeted him.

"Aiden, Ethan. I can't say I'm happy to see you."    


	3. Honored Guests

Aiden smiled. It was not a nice smile. "That's cute. You ready?"  


It was automatic to twitch his shoulder, a shrug, as his eyes darted around, desperately trying to find a way to leave a clue. But what clue? What did he even know?  


Stalling for time, Stiles said casually, "Well, honestly, couldn't tell you. Are we going to a party or a sacrifice or a rave or...? Your ringmaster wasn't very specific." Fishing for details, anything, really, to learn more about where he was being taken and why.  


A thin eyebrow raised, Ethan asked, seemingly in spite of himself, "Ringmaster?"  


"Ya, y'know, Deucalion. He's got you guys jumping through hoops for him. After all, right now you're not much more than a glorified taxi service." Stiles smirked against the rapid pounding in his chest, hoping he looked confident and not like he was about to be sick. "Should I be paying you a tip?"  


"Nah, we're a free service." Though the reply was light enough, Aiden took a step forward, his face set in lines that were anything but friendly. "You have anything else you want to say?"  


Swallowing hard, Stiles stood his ground. "Uh, yeah," he mumbled. "Are you guys, like, the freak part of the circus? I mean, all werewolves could be acrobats, your boss man clearly plays the clown... that leaves the freak show. And you guys do creepily merge together, so -"  


Aiden slammed him into the nearest wall. _I've been getting that a lot recently._ The werewolf was partially changed; his eyes had darkened, and the suggestion of fangs parted his lips slightly. Which meant it was time to play 'who can be quiet for the longest'. Stiles had never been very good at the game, even when he was just a kid. But then again, losing the game when he was kid wasn't quite so fatal as it would be this time around.  


"Where you're going," Aiden growled heavily, "you've got a tough crowd. You could say your humor's going to fall on _dead_ ears. And no one will be laughing. So shut up."  


And seriously, Stiles would have. He would have bit his tongue and nodded all meek and obliging... only Aiden had put special emphasis on dead ears. Dead, not deaf. The hint that he had been waiting so desperately for sat there, waiting for the teen to reach out and take it. And he did. Snatched it right up. _Dead. Nearby. We're close to a graveyard. Is that where they're taking me?_ Not really close, but he'd walked there a lot when he was a kid. He knew where it was. But how to tell Scott and the others?  


Hitching on a patented grin, Stiles threw up his hands - as well as he could, considering he was being pressed between a brick and a _really_ hard place - and exclaimed, "We're all friends here, buddy. I just wanted to be the first to tell you guys that your relationship is seriously messed up."  


Not very good friends, apparently, because Aiden threw him down the hall. He landed hard on his shoulder, hit the back of his head on the floor, and it hurt. A blinding pain made his vision go white for the space of a few seconds. _Shit. Ow._ It actually hurt more, though, when the Alpha abruptly landed on him, and all the air was forced from his lungs. Considering the fact that the belligerent twin had gone completely wolf, things probably would have gone downhill from there if Ethan hadn't stepped in.  


"Aiden," he snapped, "stop." And Stiles had his eyes closed, - cause hell, who wants to see a slavering, furry face about to bite your nose off? - but he heard the protesting snarl that slid from the aforementioned face. Clearly, he _really_ wanted to bite something off. Ethan remained firm. "No. Not now. Deucalion told us to bring him, and that's what we're doing. Get a grip. Do you want him to be pissed off again?"  


It took some time for the heavy, hot bursts of air above Stiles to recede, but eventually the Alpha withdrew his bulky form. In a voice that was still warped, Aiden rasped, "Fine. Let's go."  


It occurred to Stiles that pushing your luck too far was a truly excellent way to get murdered by a werewolf, but he still hadn't found a way to leave a clue for Scott, so he gave a mental finger to whoever said don't push your luck and went for it. Sitting up was painful, and so was breathing, and it turned out talking wasn't much fun either. He all but gasped, "Wait."  


In a different situation, Ethan's face might have been funny. It went from astounded disbelief to a furious sort of incredulity. It was obvious he was thinking something along the lines of, "Anyone this stupid deserves to have their throat ripped out." Unfortunately, this wasn't a different situation, and Stiles only felt panicky at the look. It was an expression that warned he was pushing Aiden way too far, and Stiles only devoutly hoped the Alpha would have a bit of self-control.  


"I, umm..." He coughed, hard, and was appalled to taste something metallic in his mouth. Blood, yeah. He'd bitten his tongue. _Great. Just great._ "This is embarrassing but," he gave a shaky laugh, "I forgot to pack something essential."  


"What?!"  


"So sue me. This was pretty short notice. I'll just go upstairs and -"  


"The hell you will!" Aiden was back to his normal, loveable self, but he was definitely on the brink. "We're leaving now!"  


Stiles got to his feet and - _Oh God_ \- almost fell again. A splitting headache had taken over, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, hoping this was not the beginning of a concussion. Something told him the Alpha pack wouldn't be great at babysitting a human that was dealing with brain trauma.  


Not heatedly, because he hurt far too much for that, the teen stated, "If you want to let me borrow some of your own underwear in the next few days, then fine, great, we can go." His headache was almost bad enough to keep him from being embarrassed at the statement. Not quite, but it gave a very nice effort to keep him distracted. Trying to ease the pain, he slid his fingers to his temple and then further, gingerly touching the back of his skull. When he pulled them away, they were wet and red. _Shit._  


The twins noticed, shared a look, and then Ethan grunted. "I'll take him to his room. Wait here." And before Stiles could protest, his arm was put over Ethan's shoulder and he was forced into movement, weight almost entirely supported by the other boy. Turns out, that was pretty useful, because the staircase was being treacherous and wouldn't stay still, and each step he took threatened to send them both tumbling. _Please, please don't be a concussion,_ he thought hazily.  


They got to his room in short order - Ethan presumably following his nose - and Stiles realized he'd left his bag downstairs where he'd dropped it. That was just great. Stiles liked to think of himself as intelligent, clever and quick on his feet, but right now, it was a struggle just to keep a hold of the dubious - and only - idea he'd had to give his friends a clue. When Ethan shrugged his arm away, for a moment he just swayed, one hand still at his forehead, and completely blanked on what the hell he was supposed to be doing.  


"Shit." That from Ethan, who stood uneasily, shifting impatiently on his feet. "You're stupid. You're also bleeding. Was there a reason why you thought pushing my brother would be a good idea?"  


Licking his lips, Stiles shook his head. "Shits and giggles?" he suggested weakly.  


"More like screams and severed body parts. This may not have occurred to you, but I guarantee it's occurred to Aiden. Deucalion said he wanted you alive. He didn't say anything about the amount of pieces we could deliver you in. So, seriously, for your own good, stop."  


It was weird how earnest Ethan was, how forcefully he was trying to get the message through, and it gave Stiles a small shiver of hope. With Aiden, this would never, ever work, but with Ethan... Wincing at the movement, Stiles took a few faltering steps to his closet and then crouched among the clothing and junk that spilled out of it. Most was just stuff that he had been meaning to wash for a few days, but he knew that, tucked into the back corner, was something very important. Two things, actually, though for entirely different reasons. Even better, he knew with certainty that they were there; he'd looked at them the night they'd learned of Heather's death.  


Ethan was looking over his shoulder and grunted, "Your room is disgusting. Have you even washed any of these clothes in the past year?"  


Blinking rapidly, trying to force away the headache, Stiles shrugged. "Between you psychotic nut jobs and regular life, washing clothes is just a little low on my list of priorities."  


"Well, I see about ten pairs of underwear, so grab the cleanest and let's go."  


"Just a second." And if it was Aiden, he would have been yelled at, at the least, but Ethan remained quiet and just watched. Which was, in its own way, more unnerving than having someone scream at him. He needed to make sure Ethan didn't catch on to what he was doing. At least when he tentatively prodded at the back of his head, there was a stiff layer of matted hair; it looked like he wasn't going to bleed to death.  


The shoebox - not old, he'd put everything in a new one just a few months ago - was exactly where he'd left it, under a pile of sweaters he never wore. Stiles pulled it out with a reverence that was totally ridiculous considering the circumstances, but something he couldn't help. Everything, every important moment, was in that box. And though he wasn't sentimental, that didn't mean he couldn't want to have something to hold on to from the past. The headache was making him pretty spacey, anyways. He opened the lid.  


"Stiles..."  


"I just need something."  


There wasn't much. A baseball from the first and only game in Little League that he'd ever won. A Disneyland ticket. A dumb, fake badge his dad had given him when he was younger. A silver necklace, and a dark grey rock shaped like a heart with a small chip missing. The necklace was his mom's, and the rock was something Scott had noticed when he'd come with Stiles to the funeral. And because Scott was corny sometimes, he'd given it to Stiles. And because Stiles had been broken and numb, and the gift made him feel something, he'd kept it.  


It wasn't much of a hint to leave. Maybe they wouldn't even notice it. And, staring at the smooth surface, he would have liked to keep it with him. But he couldn't think of anything else, so he'd have to leave it behind. But not everything. A soft sound caught in the back of his throat as he reached out and picked up both the necklace and the rock with one hand. The head injury was definitely doing something to him; his eyes were misting up. If Ethan hadn't been staring holes into his back, he might have taken a moment to let the thin chain slip through his fingers, only to catch it at the last moment. He did bring both hands to his face, pressed them against his cheeks in a reassuring manner.  


It was at that moment that he switched the rock to his other hand.  


Getting up was hard, but he did his best to go quickly, so that Ethan wouldn't feel the need to get closer. Biting his lip, partly for show and partly because, shit, his head was a foggy, burning mess, Stiles thrust the necklace self consciously forward for the werewolf's inspection. "I needed this," he said shortly, hoping and praying Ethan hadn't been interested enough in the rock to actually notice it.  


The less than false ruse worked; after a short, brittle silence, the Alpha nodded. He seemed almost embarrassed, and a moment later he turned away. "Okay. You got it. It's about time we left. Deucalion is going to be pissed we took so long, anyways."  


When his eyes left Stiles' hands, the teen slipped his hint into his waistband - it wasn't a tight fit, considering the jeans he was wearing were practically falling off as is - and then went forward and grabbed a few pairs of boxers from the dresser. Ethan wasn't watching, not carefully - his flushed face indicated he didn't want to be seen staring at a guy's underwear, though Stiles had this certain feeling about that - and it was then that he took the rock out and placed it on the dresser. In the same motion, he closed the top drawer and straightened, boxers hanging from his shaking hands.  


"Well," he mumbled, "got 'em. Let's go; I don't want to leave our taxi waiting, I hear they get really excited about that." It was a good thing his heart had been hammering itself against his chest since the Alphas had shown up, or it would have been a dead giveaway. As it was, his heartbeat felt... off. Like it was starting to flutter instead of beat. _Shit._  


Ethan rolled his eyes and headed for the door. He paused, one hand on the doorknob, and Stiles nearly ran into him. If his heart wasn't so unsteady already, it would have all out stopped. _Don't see it, don't see it, don't -_  


"Are you okay?"  


The concern caught Stiles completely off guard, and he answered without a hint of sarcasm. "No, I'm not. Are you going to do anything about it?" _Just don't let him see._  


A pointed question, and it definitely speared Ethan. He paled, looked around the room as if for inspiration, but none was to be found. After a painful, awkward silence, the werewolf sighed and shook his head. "No, I guess not. I can't. Sorry."  


So, so inadequate, but Stiles found that he couldn't care much. His breath was becoming languid, almost sleepy, and he couldn't seem to pull in a greater amount of air. The pain had, at least, receded, but it left a mental haze so thick it was like being in the moment just before or after going to sleep. His vision was becoming fragmented, and as he clumsily took another step, ready to follow Ethan, he suddenly felt himself falling. Felt it, but could make no effort to stop himself.  


Something caught him before he hit the floor, but after that there was nothing but black.


	4. Unfair Exchange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! This was a quick write up - the next chapter is gonna take longer - but I can promise you that the next one is going to have a nice amount of Sterek. So hang in there, for those of you who were starting to wonder!

Stiles couldn't even say that the next few days were a blur, because they seemed to last forever. He didn't know where he was - he hardly knew who _he_ was - but every time he thrashed his way into semi-consciousness, it was to be greeted by the same blurry face. Well, almost the same. Sometimes it was scowling and disgusted, and sometimes it was tight-lipped and concerned. He didn't bother trying to think about it too much. He couldn't.

During the initial couple of days, he spent most of his waking hours being violently sick. Even after the first few times had pretty much rid him of his lunch and breakfast - and liver and kidneys, it felt like - his stomach still heaved and rolled and made him more miserable than he could have ever believed possible. The concussion was bad enough, but _they_ kept waking him up, waking him up, never letting him sleep. It was exhausting. His throat was burned and rough from retching so much, and though he thought that sometimes his silent companion forced him to drink water, he was still always thirsty.

If Stiles had been alert enough to really consider it, his condition would have made him very, very afraid. It felt like he was doing a good job of dying. Worse, he was dying alone.

He got better though. Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself back to the world of the living. The next time the teen was roughly shaken, he woke up. Really woke up. His body was pretty much taking a prolonged vacation, but his mind was sharper than it had been in some time. And Ethan was there. Wordlessly, he helped Stiles sit up - the human's muscles were weak and sore and protested even that motion - and gave him a cup of water.

The dehydrated teen finished it without pausing for breath; he nearly choked at the end. It was sweet, as if someone had poured a packet of sugar in, but that was hardly a deterrent. His stomach was tight and the water sat in it uncomfortably, but he still looked for more. There was another glass by Ethan, but when Stiles reached for it, it was pulled from his grasp.

"Wait," the werewolf insisted. "See if you can hold that down."

Stiles wanted to protest, but his throat was too raw to use for pointless arguing. Instead he croaked, "Where's my dad?" Because really, that had been the whole point of all of this.

Even in the midst of his delirium, Stiles had thought of the Sheriff. His lined, strong face had floated, cloudlike, through his mind time and time again, and usually it was stained with blood or tears or both. And those had been the hardest times, because seeing his dad like that, with the concussion blurring the lines between horrifying imagination and reality, he had never been more tempted to just give up and say, 'I'm sorry dad. I let you down. This is all my fault and I can't fix this.'

At the height of his disorientation, he had whispered and cried those words, over and over, and Aiden had gotten up and left the small room, to seat himself in the hallway outside. Stiles couldn't have known, but the Alpha pressed his hands against his ears and thought of how he could possibly apologize to the Sheriff if his son died. He concluded that there was no easy way to say, "Sorry for murdering your child. He didn't deserve it, and I didn't mean to, but he's still dead." Once, when Stiles was at his worst and Deucalion had told them to dig a new grave, he had even cried, a few tears seen only by his brother.

Ethan had also been thinking but, in a way, he'd always been better at hiding and controlling his emotions than his twin. He had to be, considering he didn't often agree with the things Deucalion ordered them to do. He sure as hell didn't agree with him now. Werewolves had no business dragging humans into their world - this fiasco proved that, if nothing else - and vice versa.

None of that showed on Ethan's face when he flatly replied to Stiles' question. "He's not here. He never was. We called him, told him you were in a car accident on the other side of town, and he rushed off. You missed him by a few minutes. And then you left with us and he missed _you_ by a few minutes."

"Huh." Stiles let himself fall back, tilting his head against the wall even though it hurt. He was exhausted and empty. "Well... that's good." What else could he say? There was a weak impulse in his chest to scream and swear and punch some werewolves in the face, but besides the fact that the third part of the plan would never work, he was just too tired. There was relief, yes, overpowering and all consuming, but also desolation, because it turned out his bravery had been for nothing.

It hadn't occurred to Stiles that they might be lying about having his father. He had panicked at the thought of his biggest fear being realized, of his dad dying because of him. He had tried to think clearly, to leave a trail, but no one had come to the rescue, so he had failed in that sense, too. Closing his eyes, Stiles thought, _I guess that means that Deucalion won after all. He played me like an idiot. I'm so stupid._

And there was silence. Ethan had prepared himself for a flood of questions, but Stiles asked none. There wasn't any point. Deucalion hadn't even been there in person and he'd proven that Stiles was just a child blundering around and playing at being a grownup.

 _Why do I think I can keep up with any of them? Scott or Derek or this Alpha Pack? I keep telling myself that if I'm_ smart, _if I_ study, _if I try_ hard enough _I might just be useful. But shit... I'm so wrong. What... Why would Deucalion want me, anyways? Something to do with Scott, definitely, for leverage, blackmail or information or something. I don't want to give them anything, but..._

Stiles thought about the sour fear that had coiled in his stomach and made him queasy when Aiden had shifted and come after him in the hallway. He remembered the terror that had weakened his knees and made him all but worthless when Peter had hurt Lydia and forced him to reveal Scott's password and username. He didn't acknowledge the guts, initiative and ingenuity he had shown in either situation, traits that had - at least in part - saved the day. Sunk into a sudden bout of self loathing and -yeah - self pity, he didn't notice Ethan's eyes abruptly narrowing.

"Seriously?!" The explosive question jerked Stiles from his swamped mind, and he looked over. "What?"

"Is that seriously it? You're just going to sulk?"

The déjà vu the accusation provoked was accompanied by a wave of irritation that served, at least a little, to help him push away his unknowingly undeserved contempt.

"I am not sulking!" he barked, sitting up straighter and then cringing at the discomfort that caused. "Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"Because yours is not a face for sorrow." That was definitely not Ethan. Stiles looked up sharply, and his brown eyes narrowed at the blind man who entered the room, one hand lightly placed on Aiden's arm. Instantly Ethan rose and stepped away from the human, and it definitely felt as though there was a line being drawn in the small room.

Stiffening, Stiles met Deucalion's sightless, sunglass stare evenly. "So," he said with deliberate casualness, "did you just make that up or have you got a collection of Braille Shakespeare tucked away somewhere?"

Both twins bristled, but the other werewolf just chuckled, a nightmarish echo of his laugh over the phone. "I made it up, sad to say. Not one of my more clever statements, I must admit. But Stiles, you should know more than most that everyone fails sometimes. Especially if they try an activity that just isn't right for them." He tilted his head and continued. "For example, trying to keep up with a pack of werewolves when you're just an ordinary human."

"Yeah," Stiles agreed, only a little unsteadily. "An ordinary human trying that would be pretty weird. Almost as weird as a blind man leading a bunch of Hulk-outs who pick fights for reasons unknown and generally make a nuisance of themselves."

"Reasons unknown to _you_ ," Deucalion pointed out, and his voice had become much sharper. It softened slightly when he added, "And besides, I'm no ordinary blind man. I have powers far greater than those seen before. I am... special."

Swallowing against the dryness of his throat, trying to ignore the intense hunger pangs in his stomach, Stiles asked, "Did your mom tell you that? Cause my mom said about the same thing and -"

He didn't see Deucalion's curt gesture, but suddenly Aiden was lifting him up and yanking his right arm behind his back, making his muscles scream in protest at the movement. Forced onto his tiptoes in order to keep Aiden from applying pressure to his shoulder, Stiles dropped both sarcasm and his gaze, though he clung to his bravado.

Staring at his scuffed shoes, blinking back tears of pain, the teen said flatly, "I'm not afraid of you. I know you won't kill me."

"True on only one count, unfortunately." Deucalion made another motion, and abruptly Stiles' arm was being ripped off. Not literally, but it felt like it, and he choked on the agony, couldn't even scream, let alone breathe past it. Aiden held him like that for a minute or so and then relaxed his brutal grip, and Stiles sagged, panting and gasping for air. Completely motionless, Ethan looked on without expression, and Stiles abandoned that particular hope.

"All humans are afraid of pain," Deucalion told him distantly. "It's only natural, seeing as you all die so easily. And that's why you should be very afraid of me; because you're right, I have no intention of killing you."

Again the excruciating pain was back, and a sickening pop announced Stiles' shoulder dislocating. He found, somewhere, the breath to scream. As the first tortured sound faded away, Aiden made another harsh manipulation and, accompanied by a quieter clicking, his shoulder was forced back into place. Stiles screamed again, and the noise trailed into a whimper as the Alpha twin released him entirely, stepped away, and allowed him to collapse to his knees.

With clipped precision, Deucalion made his way forward and dropped to a crouch in front of the human. His slender hand forced Stiles' chin up, nails digging lightly into the pale skin. Stiles had his eyes closed, breathing heavily through his nose to keep back the sobs, but he could still hear the blind werewolf.

"Let me make this perfectly clear, Stiles. I have no interest in hurting you. I take no joy in seeing you in pain. It is time consuming and pointless. You will find this difficult to believe, but I honestly just want what is best - and that means for your pack as well as mine. But let us be honest. It is a simple fact that you will help me. There can be no dispute of that. The only question left then is, 'Will you help me willingly?' And if you're smart, which I believe you are, the answer will be yes."

The fingers left Stiles' chin, and a moment later, from farther away, Deucalion said, "I'll give you a few hours to think of the right answer."

He knew it was Ethan who stayed behind and forced a mug into his shaking hands. Opening his eyes to reluctant slits, Stiles stared at the cloudy water for a moment before taking a small sip and then a larger gulp. The liquid was incredibly refreshing, but it was sharply contrasted by the sharp ache in his shoulder, by the helplessness in his throat. _He's right. I... I can't hand much more of that. But I can't just sell out my friends because of a little pain._

Only it wasn't just a little. He'd never hurt so much.

Echoing his thoughts, Ethan muttered, "Deucalion's right you know. You are going to help us. No one can hold out when Aiden does that to them. Especially not a human."

Clenching the mug to keep from shuddering at the thought of what Aiden did to him, Stiles mumbled hoarsely, "You guys give humans such a bad rap." He paused, and then whispered, "We're stronger than you think." _I really hope that's true._

"Why? Why be stronger? Are you really so set against helping us that you'd risk more?"

Stiles' head snapped around, and he set down the cup with a hard thud. "Are you kidding me? Of course I'm 'set against' helping you! Your maniac leader has threatened Derek and Scott, kidnapped Erica, Boyd and Isaac, and pretty much said that he'll be waging war against Derek until he joins your pack."

There was something there, a cloud across Ethan's guileless face, but the Alpha banished it so quickly Stiles wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. Ethan's next statement completely distracted him from the look.

"What are you going on about? This - you being here - has absolutely nothing to do with Derek. Deucalion wants you to work for us, yeah, and that might sometimes involve your little hybrid bunch of friends, but it doesn't actually affect them in any way." Again, the shadow slid momentarily across his face, but Stiles was too busy processing the information to notice.

"It doesn't...?" he repeated slowly, and then with increased agitation, "It doesn't have anything to do with Derek?" That was relief and devastation delivered in the same package, and he found he was really starting to get tired of the double standards. Anger creased his voice when he demanded, "Then why am I here?"

Flexing his fingers, Ethan stood. In a tone that indicated it should be obvious, the Alpha said, "We need your help with something that's _actually_ a threat to us. I'm going to grab you some food and ice for your shoulder." He turned to leave.

Stiles scrambled to his feet, swayed, and automatically flung out his injured arm to catch himself on the wall. Yelping at the mistake, he fell back into the wall instead and called indignantly, "You can't just dump that on me and then go! What is 'actually' a threat to a pack like yours?"

Ethan had smiled thinly at Stiles' antics, but the smile quickly departed. He stopped just outside the room, halfway through closing the door, and growled. It was an actual snarl, and when he verbally answered, the threatening sound still lingered in his voice. "Right now, just one thing. The Darach."

And he shut the door, locking it with a firm motion, and had to suppress a grimly amused grin as a human howl rose from behind the door.

"Ethan! What the hell is a Darach?"       


End file.
